


My Life for a Good Gun (made with love)

by AngeNoir



Category: Hansel and Gretel: Witch Hunters (2013), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Supernatural Elements, Alternate Universe - Supernatural Hunters, M/M, Pre-Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-17
Updated: 2016-09-17
Packaged: 2018-08-15 13:14:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,914
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8057797
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AngeNoir/pseuds/AngeNoir
Summary: Clint and Natasha weren't exactly looking forward to moving away from their home state, but there were already so many hunters. It was time to branch out, and if they were going to find a new hometown, and base, they'd need a place to make guns and get ammo without too many questions.And then Clint stumbled over Tony's. Literally.





	My Life for a Good Gun (made with love)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [YanzaDracan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/YanzaDracan/gifts).



> I am... so not sure if this is what you wanted, but I hope it's okay!

Clint dropped his guns into the bag and then dropped himself onto the bed heavily. His sister raised an eyebrow at him. “You doing okay?” she asked.

“We need a steady supplier, Nat,” he sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “Thank the gods the netting worked on that witch, but I’m down to my last bit of ammo.”

“Well, we were paid enough to relax a bit. This is a very central city, after all; we can make this a home base if you want. I’m tired of New York, anyway.”

Clint snorted and flopped backwards on the hotel bed. “You are just sick of running into Phil and his little coterie of hunters.”

“You can’t tell me that it’s starting to feel a little crowded there. We can more effectively reach the Midwest. And as much as witches in the east coast are extremely active, there’s also multiple cases that are reported in the Midwest and along the west coast. We could branch out.”

Witch hunters were not as common as they used to be. With the inventions and progress of society, less people believed in witches, and with the increase of the middle class and the poor falling by the wayside, homelessness – and missing persons – increased. Hunters were hard-pressed to tell when someone simply lost their job and so decided to drift away from their community, or if a witch swooped in and devoured the poor soul. Witches could hide easier in this day and age, where families were less connected and communities less concerned with their neighbors’ comings and goings. It meant that research and careful putting together of missing people, combined with information sharing on where witches liked to live, was what allowed hunters to continue operating.

Clint and Natasha had been in the business for quite a long while – since they were young children, in fact, and their father had suddenly taken them out of the house, taken them to the woods behind their house, to the hunting shed. They had waited in that shed for two days, scared because their father had warned them against returning to the house, but after those two days, hungry and alone, they had crept back to the house.

It had been empty, and the inside of the house had been partially burned, furniture broken, and the smell of blood everywhere.

Natasha had been the stronger one, taking Clint by the hand and walking back to the shed. They could live there, she had said, and they had ended up living in the woods, foraging for food like their parents had taught them, until they had come across another small cottage. It looked homey and welcoming, a cat sprawled across the front porch, a rocking chair in front of a curtained window.

They had been hungry, and lonely. Clint had begged Natasha to let them knock, to see if the person inside had food that wasn’t blackberries or raw rabbit, and she had reluctantly agreed.

(He never told her, later, that he blamed himself for what had happened, for convincing her to go, for convincing her despite her misgivings. He knew she would hit the back of his head for thinking that, but it was hard to ignore the fact that he was _right_.)

They had been living in upstate New York at the time, and moved further down, learning what witches were, what the best method was to kill witches, and what witches wanted (people who could use magic, fire and/or beheading, and to live forever by apparently eating people and taking the years that person would have lived).

But Phil Coulson had heard of them, the brother and sister pair, and had apprenticed under them after a particularly nasty witch that had taken twelve children for a ritual. Along with a troll, named Bruce, they had stopped the witch just in time to prevent New York from becoming a wasteland ruled by witches.

And now Phil Coulson was training his own little apprentices, and it was harder to find cases that weren’t already being worked on by other baby hunters. The case they had just finished was one much further inland they had ever worked, in Chicago.

Natasha stood up, dragging Clint’s head out of the past. “I’m going to get a drink. I’m sure you can find a gunsmith somewhere, or at least a good place to buy ammo.”

Clint grunted his agreement. Truth was he had already scoped out three places that made their own guns, ammunition, and seemed open to requests. It wouldn’t take long.

But gods above he was achy and sore from their triumph. The client this time was a rich asshole who had lost their kid, but knew enough about the occult – having dabbled, the moron – to recognize something was up with the disappearance and it wasn’t just a normal kidnapping. He’d put feelers out into the community, and initially, Clint and Natasha had decided against taking the job. Still, it was hard for Clint to ignore kids in distress.

And Natasha didn’t like denying Clint anything.

Natasha hummed and threw her wallet at Clint’s stomach, making him grunt. “If you need my credit cards. Because I’m sure yours are either over the limit because you forget to pay your bills. Always.”

Clint opened his mouth and closed it, glowering petulantly at his sister. Just because it was _true_ didn’t mean she needed to point it out.

“Well, will you go? Those kinds of places are always open at night, not during the day,” she pointed out.

“Gahhh,” Clint groaned, rolling over to squish his face into the pillow. “Why do we do this all the time? I’m so _tired_.”

“Stop whining,” she said dismissively. “You only fell two stories.”

Grumbling under his breath, Clint rolled his eyes and sat back up. She was right, of course. She always was.

“Do you need me to hold your hand?” she said cuttingly.

“No, you know, Nat, I will be perfectly fine,” he growled, standing up. “Are you happy? I’m going.”

“Mmm-hmm,” she murmured, raising an eyebrow at him.

He rolled his eyes and grabbed his duffel bag, pulling out a clean, non-bloodstained jacket and spread his arms. “Better?”

She smiled and leaned forward, kissing his cheek. “You’ll feel better after a walk; you always do. You know that.”

He sighed heavily, but dropped his shoulders. “Yeah, yeah. I know where I’m going. I’ll replenish our supplies. But I’m not kidding that I want to sleep for a week.”

“He paid enough for us to hold onto this room for a week. Maybe we can rent an apartment or find a house or something here.” She let her voice trail off, and then shook her head. “Or find a more central location, if you want.”

“Chicago’s good for me,” Clint grunted, shoving Natasha’s wallet into his back pocket. “We’ll figure it out. You’re good with the money stuff.”

With a smug smile, Natasha snagged her copy of the hotel key and opened the door for Clint.

***

The first place he’d seen was definitely not what he was looking for – it was definitely too mainstream, nothing he thought would help and be sympathetic to, oh, letting Clint make sure the water the guns and bullets were cooled down in had special herbs to bless the weapons and make them more immune to magic.

This second place, though, he liked the look of it. It was small, and definitely looked homey. He liked the actual atmosphere, too – the shop was well-loved and taken care of. Everything was polished well, and the people there were clearly bonded well with one another. They viewed Clint as an interloper, and he could tell it.

He wandered around the shop, looking for someone who could possibly be in charge, and at some point he wandered into the back area of the shop. Here were larger machines, things that honestly he didn’t think were legal—

“What are you doing back here?”

Clint turned to see a dark-haired man standing in the doorway, one hand on his hip. The other was – missing. A pinned sleeve sat on the other side of his torso.

“Just looking around,” he said casually. “Is that a crime?”

“You’re not allowed back here.”

“You in charge?” Clint asked, raising an eyebrow at the guy.

The guy glowered at him. “This isn’t your area. We don’t like outsiders here.”

Clint stepped forward, past a dilapidated dishwasher – and tripped.

He flailed, and ended up crashing down on his face to the sound of someone hissing and shouting “Ow, what the hell, Buck?”

“Oh gods, dude, I’m so sorry,” Clint said, rolling, and locking eyes with a brown-eyed, black-haired young man who had, apparently, been on his back fiddling with the wiring in the back of the dishwasher. He nearly swallowed his tongue.

“You’re not Buck,” the guy said, standing up, and he was short. And hot. Very hot.

Clint wasn’t that good at dealing with his emotions, and ended up going into a coughing fit.

“He was just leaving,” the other guy snarled.

“No, Buck, he’s our kind. But he’s new. J, who is this?”

A black cloud materialized at the side of the short guy, and an ethereal and, strangely, British voice emerged from the cloud. “He is new to this city. No strings tie him to this land at this time.”

Clint jerked back, his knife immediately in his hand, his arm up to defend himself.

“Whoa, whoa, I leave you guys for two minutes and you’re freaking out civilians?”

“He’s seen this, that’s why he had such a bad reaction. You haven’t met many good magic users, have you?”

Clint bared his teeth. “There are no good magic users, because magic necessitates pain and sacrifice and blood to get results. ‘Good’ magic users can’t do more than put out candles from a distance.”

The short guy laughed, walked up to Clint and patted Clint’s chest. “I like him. He’s okay, J. Mark that down.”

“Noted, Sir,” the black cloud said.

“Tony. Tony Stark. Warden of this city. You must be a new hunter on the scene. You are…?”

Clint blinked at him a moment before saying uncertainly, “Warden?”

“That’s your name? That will be confusing.”

“No, he’s still confused,” the new guy said, some blond, tall, and impossibly muscled guy. “I’m sorry, sir, I don’t know what you think you’re seeing or hearing, but—”

“Clint. Clint Barton.”

The short guy smiled up at him, and Clint felt his heartbeat skip. “Clint!” the short guy said eagerly. “This is Clint, guys, and I am officially adopting him. He’s good.”

“Tony…” the one-armed guy said, in a tone that implied that that level of exasperation was not in fact foreign. “You can’t adopt random people off the street.”

“Clint. Clint Barton. You know? The brother and sister team from New York? This is a lot more west than you guys normally go. Is this going to be permanent? The move?”

He blinked and tried not to melt. “We… were considering staying.”

“Perfect. You took care of that water witch in the lake, right? The one that was becoming a nuisance.” Tony grinned and turned back to the other two.

Clint found himself grinning. Gods take it, he liked this guy, even if he was a witch. Natasha was going to kill him for adopting someone else.

Yeah, he was gonna get it, but he was gonna enjoy the ride.


End file.
